Sherlock Cleans His Room
by Justonestory
Summary: John told Sherlock to clean his room. No slash, no romance, just fluff.


**This takes place before Season 3, before John got his own place with Mary. I wonder if Sherlock has to pay for the flat by himself?**

"Sherlock! _Sherlock!"_ Called a voice from Sherlock's bedroom.

"What, John?" Sherlock replied irritatingly. "Can't you hear I'm busy?"

"Come here…" After no reply from Sherlock, "Now." Sherlock sighed and dropped his spoon into the pot of boiling blood. He was a regular witch.

"What are you even doing in my room, John? You've no right to be in here. I don't go breaking into your room." Sherlock stood right into John with one leg in front of himself, and one leg behind.

"Do you see how you're standing, Sherlock? It's such a bloody mess in here you can't even stand properly."

"It's not that bad, John." Sherlock looked around. Sure, he couldn't see the floor in most places, and the pile on the dresser had grown to a carefully stacked two feet. But at least the end desk in the corner was clean. Wait, when did it get that messy? He got it just a week ago. Or was it a month ago?

"It's my room, John. I can do what I like." He said after a few moments.

"You're really going to play that game? Fine." John crossed his arms. "It's _our_ flat. And anyway. What if one day Mrs. Hudson comes through here to clean and finds… eyes o-or, I don't know. Whatever you've got stashed in here." Sherlock couldn't see any reply to this.

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded like _lincoln broom._ John smirked and tucked a hand behind his ear.

"I-I'm sorry? I couldn't quite catch that."

"I'll clean the bloody room, John!" Sherlock replied. "Just let me finish boiling my blood." Sherlock turned and began to leave.

"You've got to go be angry somewhere else?" John asked.

"I've blood boiling on the stove." Sherlock replied tersely.

"Jesus, Sherlock! You're a bloody warlock! No seriously, just get rid of 'sher' and add 'war'. You're bloody set." John walked out of the room. "Mrs. Hudson better not see this! You know what happened when she found the thumbs!"

Sherlock set the blood to simmer. It should be finished by the time he's cleaning. This shouldn't take long.

Some would wonder why such a brilliant man would have such a messy room. Possibly wonder even more why the _most_ brilliant man would have such a disgusting room. The real question is, "Why wouldn't the most brilliant man have a disgusting room?"

In the brilliant man's opinion, a bedroom is a bedroom; a place to sleep. If he happens to have some extra floor-space or desk-space while he's at it, he'll use it. He doesn't go in there expecting a nice place to look at. It's his room, he chooses to store his things. That is, before John came along.

Sherlock drew an imaginary grid before him as he stood in his bedroom doorway. There was 2-5 inch tall mess per square foot _there_, while there was only 1-3 inch mess per square foot _here._ However, the mess _there_ was accumulated mainly of smaller objects, while the mess _here_ was accumulated of larger objects. Therefore, he would start "here." …Or perhaps "there." Forget it, he'll start in that corner.

He used a plastic bag that was filled with a past experiment to collect garbage. He picked up tiny receipts and pieces of paper he'd scribbled on long ago. Some old jackets and plastic packaging.

As he was scrounging around cleaning he found a washcloth with powder on it. It was some kind of experiment. Surely the conclusion to it was in his head somewhere, but he didn't remember what experiment where he used a washcloth with some kind of powder on it.

There was just barely an odor around it. He held it to his nose and inhaled deeply. Everything went hazy and began turning black. Oh yes, he'd used it to sedate mice. Funny how you forget these things.

He woke up just one or two minutes later. He knew this because the shadows from the sun had shifted just barely. He threw the cloth into the plastic bag and roughly shook his head.

He continued working in his room for five hours and 17 minutes. He was surprised at the amount of past experiments he'd forgotten about. Also at the amount of dishes. Oh hell, was that John's good china? He threw it in the plastic bag. John would kill him if he knew about the cyanide in there.

Finally, everything was clean. He called to John that he was finished. John didn't reply. Sherlock went out to find John and tell him. He felt like a kid that just proudly finished a big task. He smiled and walked out to the living room to tell John he was finished.

Oh.

John was asleep.

Sherlock pursed his lips and nodded slowly. He quietly walked outside and dumped the overflowing plastic bag. He went back inside to find John going to his own room. "I finished my room."

"Oh yeah." John yawned. "I peeked in a bit. It was good." John mumbled. "Hey, I'm going to head for a nap."

"Right." Sherlock replied quickly. "I'm just going to go… check the blood on the stove." Sherlock turned away. Of course, his work as a child never did go appreciated.


End file.
